


Boys don't cry

by sirona



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Ducklings!, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Skye is just as badass as the rest of them, Team, Ward has team feeeeelings, Ward is good at putting his foot in his mouth, agents!, also good at chicken, team feeeels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 12:54:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirona/pseuds/sirona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ward gets hurt in the process of keeping certain members of his team from getting killed trying to help him, and tries to patch himself up alone. His team decides that his lone wolf act is way overrated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boys don't cry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [justhuman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justhuman/gifts).



> Thank you Justhuman for a lovely prompt full of Ward feeels! :) I love that boy so much, and I hope you enjoy a story full of his manly agent angst. :D Happy Holidays!
> 
> Spoilers through to Agents of SHIELD ep. 8. Some of the case outcomes within invented for narrative purposes, but I have a sneaky suspicion we'll get them at one point or another anyway. :D

“Well,” Grant says to himself, looking at his battered and bruised face in the mirror above the sink, “a fine pickle you’ve gotten yourself in, pal.”

He gingerly prods his tongue at the cut on the inside of his cheek, wincing at the sting. It is _not_ his fault. He hadn’t meant for any of this to happen: not the team, not the sticking his neck out for them, not this compulsion to make sure they’re safe. This hadn’t been in the game plan. He worked alone; he relied on no one but himself for his survival and, more importantly, no one relied on him for theirs – excepting the general population if he were to screw up his assignment. His support crew were meant to sit safely in the confines of a SHIELD-reinforced van, directing his path from within. They weren’t meant to—get in danger alongside him, or refuse to leave him to fend for himself, or, or _care_ at him.

No one was supposed to just brazenly waltz into the lair of the baddie of the week, just because Grant had been dumb enough to get caught. 

It might have been fine if it had been Agent May, or even Agent Coulson, but Fitz and Skye teaming up to hack inside the place and then flummoxing his captors enough for Simmons to get Dozy to cut his ropes under cover of darkness and terrible bluffing? That was _not_ acceptable. 

And yet, there he was, and he has to laugh at himself, or he might cry. Bucky Barnes never had to put up with this shit, Grant’s positive.

He turns sideways and tries to remain impartial as he takes a closer look at the bruise coloring his side from ribs to hipbone. The goons hadn’t been joking, he admits reluctantly, and with May down from whatever they’d injected her with when they’d snatched him, and Coulson off rendezvousing with Director Fury (boy, was he going to be _pissed_ about this whole thing), Grant had to conclude that the team had been alarmingly short on options.

 _Team_. He’s still getting used to that. It’s going to be some time until he stops waking up covered in cold sweat in the middle of the night, recoiling from whatever nightmare his subconsciousness couldn’t keep back. Jemma falling and falling and falling, drifting away from his desperately reaching hand no matter what he did. Coulson, locked up with the infected fireman but never making it out of the building on time, the stubborn bastard. May, lifeless on the floor after being knocked out by a force Grant couldn’t defeat. 

Fitz, leaping in front of him and taking a bullet in his chest that had been meant for Grant’s head, only rather than the bullet sticking harmlessly into the body armor under his sweater-vest, Grant being left to uselessly press his hands down onto the hole it had left in Fitz’s chest, the sickening wet sound of air whooshing through a punctured lung the only sound left in the world.

Surely as he breathes, he knows he’s not made for this shit. He is much closer in mind and skillset to Agent Barton or Agent Romanov, working alone often as not from a distance or hidden until being seen is no longer a concern. Having to watch out for wayward, practically unprotected teammates woefully unprepared for the realities of fieldwork is seriously screwing with his headspace. 

He was not trained for this, to watch someone under his protection get killed while he stands by impassively and lets it happen, and if that means cracked ribs and burnmarks and bruises in places he didn’t know he could be hurt, well, so be it.

“Woolgathering?” Skye says from the doorway, leaning one shoulder on the wall. Grant does not jump like some rookie, because he is a hardened professional trained not to show shock or disquiet that he hadn’t heard her approach. 

Okay, maybe just a tiny jump. Skye doesn’t comment on it, which Grant recognizes is mighty generous of her. 

“No,” he returns sharply, too defensive for the lack of provocation. He slumps. “A bit. Maybe.”

Skye nods, humming faintly. Then she crowds him back into the bathroom, batting away his protesting hands and poking gently at his split eyebrow, making it sting. 

“Cut that out,” he grumbles, but it’s without heat.

Skye gives him an unimpressed look, then reaches for the med kit, deftly liberating a couple of paper stitches from under the sterile wipes. 

“I don’t need—“ Grant starts, but is swiftly and unceremoniously told to “Shut up, God, it’s like dealing with a toddler with toothache.”

“How would you know?” Grant snaps back, and immediately experiences the violent urge to kick himself. Skye flinches back, just a fraction of an inch but Grant sees her, of course he does. Fuck, but he’s a dickhead.

“I’m sorry,” he says, flushing with remorse. 

Skye just shakes her head, expression set in those stubborn lines Grant is coming to know all too well. “Forget it,” she says. “As it happens, there were a lot of toddlers in the orphanage. Also, I’m good with kids, which, let me tell you, is coming in pretty handy around this place.”

Grant subsides, because she may just possibly have a point. Besides, her hands are steady, fingers nimble on his skin as she disinfects and pulls and sticks the cut back together. It’s just that – it’s weird to be taken care of. Sure, he’s spent plenty of time in Medical, on rather too numerous occasions, but it’s not the same as a teammate fixing his hurt. It’s been so long since someone has touched him with anything other than professional detachment – even if it is the exasperated, vaguely bristling affection of a younger sibling, much like the kind his cousin used to show him before Grant finally split for good.

“There,” Skye declares, stepping back and calmly washing his blood off her hands, which—

Hell. She really _is_ one of them. It wouldn’t be the first time SHIELD found one of their best future agents in extremely unlikely circumstances. Look at Agent Barton. Agent Lewis. Tony fucking Stark.

“Now, come on, Fitz is valiantly saving you a beer from May’s greedy clutches, but she was already close to snapping and putting him down when I left twenty minutes ago.”

Grant winces and pulls on a shirt as fast as he can, considering his body feels like it might fall apart on him with the next too-cocky movement. He catches Skye slyly eyeing him up, raising a challenging eyebrow at him when he turns to stare at her.

“What?” she says. “Your bruises are pretty.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Grant says, scandalized, then scowls when she grins victoriously, showing too many teeth. How did he come to this, losing a game of chicken with the rookie, fucking hell. He must have hit his head harder than he thought. He’s gonna need to raid Coulson’s secret stash of bourbon if this goes on.

Come to think of it, Grant might need to invest in his own cask.

Shockingly, he finds himself grinning, too, relishing the look of sudden suspicion on Skye’s face. He’s sure this will come to bite him in the ass soon enough, but actually? He thinks back on how it used to be for him, on his own, keeping quiet and still as a hunting tiger until he was needed, and concludes that if he had to go back to _that_ after this gig, he’d likely die of boredom.


End file.
